Two Melodies Entwined
by Rose Evanescent
Summary: Three years after the end of Love Never Dies, Meg Giry is left alone in New York to fend for herself. She soon turns into a monster, and only a widowed masked man, bound to her by his song, and his son can stop her. Rated M for violence and gore. Please R&R!
1. One: Lips, Red as Blood

Wind whistled clear and cold across New York City, and I clutched the railing of the same bridge I'd stood on three years ago, when I thought my life would end, and I would show the man I'd loved from a distance for so many years how much pain my heart harbored. But instead, my hand slipped – clumsy Meg – and somewhere in the universe two objects managed to collide: my bullet and Christine Daae. Shock paralyzed my mind, numbed my soul, but spurred my body into action, and I remember running down the street, blind, filled with a growing iciness in my heart, blazing hot tears burning trails down my cheeks.

I'd _killed _Christine, my best friend, my confidante, the person who always made me laugh even when I wept. She was a nightingale, warbling out sweet notes that made everyone feel ten feet tall. But with my Derringer, old and rusty and loaded with only one bullet, I, Meg Bridgette Giry, managed to extinguish a ray of sunshine that illuminated everyone I knew. All people wilted like unloved roses when she was gone.

Did _I_ wilt?

No.

I crumbled, a dead rose turning into grey ash. I knew the wind could blow me away any moment it pleased.

The time after the murder I walked the streets, ethereal-like, my feet covered in blisters from all that damned walking. I spent what little money had left in my purse on food and boarding, but when I was finally broke, I did what I did best. I whored.

It is what comes naturally, eh? Let your body do what it does, and you get the money.

Booze and drugs blurred those hazy months that I whored…I remember hotel to hotel, ceiling to ceiling, bed to bed. Not the men, though. I never remembered the men; their embraces and touches would flit across my mind from time to time, and it made me want to vomit. But as long as I couldn't remember their faces, I was fine with giving them my fake love.

One day, two years after the crime, an old newspaper scrap snagged me from my cloud of forgetting. The headline read "Christine Daae" in big faded black letter. I remember taking the paper in my hands and reading it intently.

Christine Daae had been found dead in her dressing room, the reporter stated, by her son, Gustave. It was a tragedy as the Viconte's wife had failed from all the stress from her new life in Coney Island. Raoul de Changy grieved for her, and moved back to Paris alone so he could bury his wife. The Viconte's debts had somehow magically disappeared, and Gustave was taken under the care of a New York man, said to be a music instructor. Lastly, the funeral of Christine was a lavish, opulent one in French soil – all fully paid for by a man known only as Mr. Y.

I remember clutching the newspaper to my chest as I ran off to my mother's establishment, something like hope bursting through me. Madame Giry always had something to do with aiding Mr. Y, the Phantom! She never gave up on the boy she saved, on the man who vowed I would grow up rich and loved and happy…

Fear only stopped me when I stood squarely before the sign at Phantasma, a small wooden sign hammered to the door. My eyes peered forward and read it:

PHANTASMA WILL BE CLOSED FOR A MONTH IN RESPECT FOR MS. DAAE.

DO NOT FRET – WE WILL RETURN WITH EVEN MORE WONDERS!

Not only this caught my eye. There was a flutter of familiar yellow parchment paper from the corner of the sign, behind it, tucked away, hidden to be found. With trembling hands, I removed it, and read the words written in my mother's careful, spidery cursive:

"Dearest Meg,

"If you have returned to Phantasma, I thank you. It does pain a mother to not know where her child is, especially on the dark streets of New York City.

"You have no doubt heard the news of Christine's death as reported by the media. Notice you were mentioned nowhere in the article. This was not my doing – I left the telling of the crime entirely up to Mr. Y and Gustave, as I have had enough of them."

Had enough? My stomach began to churn.

"What I mean to tell you, my little Meg, is I am done with the opera ghost and his whole story. I waited for you to return to me from your disappearance on the streets, but when you never returned, I gave Mr. Y my leave and bought a ticket for Paris. I'm sorry, Meg, but I must go, with or without you."

Tears, my own tears, dripped onto the page and blurred the ink of the words I just read. I swallowed a hard lump in my throat, but forced myself to continue.

"If you are reading this, I am in France. Forgive me, Meg, it was the only thing I could do.

"Do not fear for lodgings – the three circus performers have sworn to me they will secure you a dance position when Phantasma reopens, so you might have pay and a place to sleep at night.

"You wanted to lead your own life, Meg – so now I let you lead it. I have given you all I can, and now it is your time to take control. Make your own life, little Meggie, and I wish you the best of luck."

"Love,

Mama"

My heart constricted like an anaconda wrapped around it, and my fingers trembled as they gripped the edges of the paper. My own mother had left me alone to fend for myself in New York City – in a month I would have money and shelter, but as for now, what could I do? I was so angry that I tore her letter into shreds, my face growing hot in the icy air. Who did she think she was? Did she think I did not _love_ her? God, she was my only aid in this damned town!

I began to stomp down the streets, pulling my threadbare shawl tighter around my shoulders, a futile way to defect the winter air. Make my own life? A great idea, _Mother_. How should I create my new life? Would I wait and then become a burlesque dancer once again? Or should I keep whoring? Either way I would stay a street urchin, a thief, a poor girl. I wanted money, for through all I learned, I knew money brought power. Money was the reason men came to buy my fake love, money was the way you could get your way out of doing anything bad. I wanted wealth and power – but how could I gain it? Ladies were far from the world of lowlifes like me.

I removed myself from the bridge of bad memories and walked the streets, turning thoughts over and over in my head. When I passed through a street market, I heard something that turned me around.

"Give it back, you bastard!" an old woman's voice yelled through the air, hoarse and angry. "That's _mine_!" My head spun around and saw a fruit stand on the sidewalk, owned by an elderly female who shook her cane angrily. A young beggar, looking to be in his twenties, dashed from the stand, gripping a red apple tight in his palm. Suddenly my interest peaked, and I followed him into the crowd, my slender dancer legs not minding the physical exertion at all. He wove through the crowd like a practiced criminal, but I was a predator, a stalking tigress. Finally the beggar ducked into a dark alley, and I followed him in.

Shadows fell every which way across the empty backstreet, and I watched rats slither across the slimy ground. The place was a dead end, I saw, and the side of the brick wall proved there was no escape. A new emotion raced through me, a delightful, thrilling sensation. My pupils dilated, and my heart sped like a steam-hammer.

The young man did not notice me as I followed him until I cleared my throat loudly. He turned. Sweat stuck in beads on his forehead, freezing in the cold, and his lips trembled. But when he realized it was me, a poor-looking lady, his scared expression turned into a sneer.

"Get lost, lady," he snarled in a thick city-rat accent, throwing his apple from hand to hand. "I don' need no _company_."

"It's not nice to steal from anyone," I replied, voice crisp and clear in the frosty air; my eyes wandered to an old discarded glass bottle at my feet. "Let alone an old woman just trying to earn her keep."

"You stupid or somethin'? Get away!" the beggar barked. "I don't intend on sharin' my bounty with a whore."

That last word struck me like an icepick to the heart. "I do not intend on sharing, monsieur," I said softly. "I intend to take all that I _deserve_."

Before he could respond, I grabbed the glass bottle by its neck and swung it down at the beggar – it hit his shoulder and shattered, leaving him with a torn coat shoulder and me with a jagged bottleneck edged with razor-sharp glass. He backed off and clutched his now-bloody arm. "_Shit_!" he exclaimed, in a mixture of anger, surprise, and terror. But the ecstatic feeling in me ate at my mind, and I wanted more. I slashed the man's face twice, leaving him two gashes, one across his forehead, and one deep in his left cheek. Blood, vivid and red splattered onto my light-blue linen dress, and I gasped when I felt how hot it was, fresh from the veins. I gave the man an opportunity to stagger back, grabbing his bloody mess of a face, and weeping.

"Jesus, lady, leave me alone," he sobbed. "_Please_."

My mind absorbed what I just did, and I was shocked, not in how I'd attacked the beggar, but in how good it felt to do it. "Just a moment," I said, looking at my bloody bottle. "I want to find out something, and perhaps…you can help me find this out."

"Yes," moaned the man, through tears, crying, crying like a baby. "Anything you want!"

Swiftly I darted forward and took him by his lapels, jerking him up so that our faces were inches apart. "I want to find out what a man's eyes look like when he dies," I hissed into the beggar's ear. Before he could scream, I plunged the jagged broken bottle deep into his stomach, feeling the blood gush over my hand. The sound the man emitted was low and pleading, animalistic, and he let out a whimper as I twisted the weapon inside of him, ripping his insides. I watched the light fade from his eyes and counted his slowing, raspy breaths. Finally, I leaned forward and inhaled his last breath, feeling its hot essence fill my lungs. Then, fulfilled with a new, satisfying bliss, I let go of his body and let it slump on the ground. But I did lean down and pry the stolen apple from his frozen hand. It was flecked with his crimson blood, almost the same color as the fruit's skin.

Standing up tall and throwing the broken bottle next to his body, I bit into the apple and chewed thoughtfully, the sweet fruit's juice running down to my chin. "Perhaps," I murmured to myself, "perhaps I do not need to be either a lady or an urchin. I could be both. _A thief as rich as a queen_."

His blood dyed my lips a scarlet-red.


	2. Two: Schemes, Sweet as Wine

I spent the next few days alone on the street, utilizing the alleys to the best of my abilities, but saving my next kill. I used water from dripping pipes to clean my dress from the blood, and after I did some "intimate favors" for a few rich men who threw around money like a plaything, I had enough money to stay in a dirty boarding house for a week and scrape up enough food to survive. By then I had drawn up a plan in my mind, and I left the boarding house late on a Thursday evening, when a proper lady shouldn't walk the streets, accompanied by the sounds of horse hooves on cobblestone and hacking coughs from the poor and the scents of smoke, horse feces, ice, and human stink. But I kept my head low, as I was taught as a little girl, and went right to my destination blocks away – the Red Lion Bar.

Opening the door to the Red Lion, I was hit by a wave of warmth and the smell of stale beer. I knew it was safe to come to this bar late at night, because now the only men in it were falling-over drunk, not able to cast poisonous glares at a female entering a man's place; the bartender was also a kind old man whose face was wrinkled as a walnut, and his name was Thom – he always gave me free drinks, saying they were on the house for such a "pretty lady," even if this pretty lady took the hard stuff. But I wasn't here for the good atmosphere or the nice bartender tonight – tonight I was here for reasons of my own.

"Well hullo, Ms. Giry," Thom grinned, pulling out a clean mug for me. "Long time no see! What'll you have, dear?"

I beamed back and folded my hands together chastely – Thom always reminded me of a nice old grandfather, despite him having more physical similarities to a walnut. "I am not here for drinks tonight, Thom, though I thank you. I'm not here for pleasure," I said. "_Strictly_ business. I assume your regular three are here tonight?"

Thom put away the mug. "Why yes, love. They're in the back room, if you'd like to see them." He handed me a little brass key.

Nodding my thanks, I walked to the back of the dirty bar and into a thin hallway where a door sat at the end of it. Putting the brass key into the keyhole, I unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a tight spiral staircase that wound downwards. Hiking up my skirts, I went down the stairs, the metal clanging underneath my worn shoe heels.

The staircase led down at least one story into a small storage room filled with giant barrels of wine sitting comfortably in their wooden stands. I saw the soft, golden glow of candlelight and heard snickers and mindless chatter and knew my helpers were here.

At the back of the storage room, three people sat on a large cask of wine, lit by their dripping wax candle, and I recognized them as circus people. They were Fleck, the female dwarf, Squelch, the strongman clown, and Gangle, the long-legged circus barker, and they were all lounging on the barrel easily, holding a conversation and taking swigs of their drinks, all good friends. I stepped into their sights.

"Perhaps people so full of alcohol should not be relaxing so close to an open flame," I commented, my lips twitching up into a grin. The three looked at me through blurry eyes, but I knew they were all competent enough to know what occurred around them. Squelch gave a laughing bellow, followed by the chorus of amusement from the others.

"Meggie, Meggie, queen of the stage!" Fleck giggled, letting big Squelch help her down off the barrel so she could stand before me. "How is our dearest Ooh-La-La Girl?"

I surprised my anger at that title that reminded me of my risqué shows, and kept smiling, staying to my good-natured self. "Excellent," I answered. "I've missed you, friends."

"And we, _you_," Gangle grinned, hopping down and landing on his of lengthy legs; he removed his ever-present top hat to reveal a shining-bald head. "What may we do for you, our best girl?"

I casually leaned against a barrel, twirling a blonde lock that had come free from my tied-back hair around my index finger. "I have been needing some – supplies," I told them, making my lower lip subtly pouty. "For – an act I'd like to put on."

"Oh, an _act_!" Squelch exclaimed excitedly, rolling off his perch like a ball. "Tell us, Meggie! We're all ears!"

"Well, it's a surprise," I explained nonchalantly, lies rolling off my tongue like butter – well they weren't really lies, were they? It was an act, and a _surprise_ one too!

"We love surprises!" Fleck cried out, jumping up and down in her elf shoes. "What do you need us to do, dearie?"

"We will do it in three parts, then," I replied, feeling the business wheels clicking in my mind. "I will need all of you to help me. First, I need my props. Shall I meet you tomorrow at Phantasma, hm, around seven in the afternoon?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Fleck grinned, clapping her hand. "Oh, we will meet you there, and get you your fabulous props!"

"Perfect," I said. "I must take my leave now, friends – it was good to see you." I grinned, patting Gangle's shoulder and gazing fondly at Fleck and Squelch, who looked on like intrigued children. "Meet me tomorrow, and do be sober!"

Squelch chuckled. "We will try, Meggie! Though we can't promise you anything!"

I left the small room, waving goodbye, trying to stop myself from bursting with happiness. Who cared if they were sober or not? All I needed was the key, not the company.

As I left, I put a dollar on the bar for Thom and exited into the snowy night back to my boarding house.

The next day I trekked down to Phantasma and met my three circus friends at the back door. Squelch had bags under his eyes and held a cold cut of meat to his forehead, moaning.

"Too much wine?" I asked, knocking on his head and making him groan again. "Well, you didn't promise me anything."

Gangle laughed and drew a ring of skeleton keys from his pocket. "Come, inside, Meggie, and let's see what props we can give you!" He unlocked the door and led us inside, carrying Fleck on his shoulders.

We went through the backstage area of Phantasma, and into the props room where I felt myself shiver with excitement. All along the walls were stacks of anything and everything – cups, chairs, hand mirrors, fans, stuffed animals, toy balls, etc. But I soon moved over to the section that called me closer – the weapon arsenal. They glittered in my eyes, bright as jewels, all real, all useable, all _deadly_. I picked up a whip and feathered the tip of it, then selected a machete and swung it around experimentally, testing how heavy it was.

"What is this act you wish to put on?" Gangle asked, looking at a fake bouquet of flowers that stuck out from the props pile.

"It is a dangerous one," I answered. "Frightening, amazing. _Exhilarating_. And requiring a few weapons." As the circus freaks talked amongst themselves, I reached out and found my weapon – a knife, complete with leather hilt. The dagger was eight inches long, new, and sharp. I pressed the blade into the pad of my thumb and instantly a raisin-black bead of blood freed itself from my skin.

"This will do," I said. "But something is missing." I turned and looked to see Squelch running around Fleck, tying her up jokingly with a long strand of stage rope. Stepping forward, I untangled Fleck and raised up the rope to the light.

"Good," I said, wrapping the rope around itself until I had formed a noose. "Now I have all the props I need."

"A rope?" Fleck giggled. "What will you use that for?"

"Naughty things," answered Squelch, earning him a slap from his female companion.

"This would look good in red," I said, beholding the noose rope; I exited the prop room, leaving my circus friends behind. Gangle stuck his head out of the room, holding a checkered umbrella by its handle – when it popped open, rain-colored sequins rained down on his head.

"What, you mean dye it red?" he called after me. "With paint?"

I didn't answer him, because I didn't plan to redden it with _paint_.


	3. Three: Mask, White as Snow

"Oh, _Meggie_!" Fleck whined. "Tell us some more about your secret act! We haven't done anything for it in so long!"

I looked in my dressing room mirror and adjusted my hair before my next dance act. I had been back working as Phantasma's "Ooh-La-La-Girl," same as always, for about a week now. Stage lights seared, crowds whooped and whistled, but my smile was fake, just like the love I sold. They knew nothing of the murders I committed, so I had to act sunny. I'd mastered the fake happiness, the disguise of joy, as a ballerina in Paris…on those days, Mama ignored me or older men tried to kiss me, their "little fairy dancer," I held the tears and soldiered on with a grin. I was good at holding it all in.

Also, as I danced on the New York stage, I gave it my all for some reason, even though Mr. Y probably wasn't watching. But who knew when he really watched? He dwelt in the shadows.

"Alright," I sighed to Fleck, slicking pink lipstick over my lips. "After the last show tomorrow, I'll meet you in the costume room, alright? Bring Gangle and Squelch."

"Oh, I'm so excited!" Fleck chirped, clapping her hands. "I'll tell them now!" The small woman ran off like a kid about to get candy.

After putting some pale powder on, I looked at myself in my full-body mirror, adjusting my "Bathing Beauty" costume. Tomorrow I would find some good outfits to serve my purpose.

But before I did that, I put on my fake smile and stepped out onto the stage.

Pigeons fluttered around me, dawn-grey, as I walked down the rich streets in the morning, a bag of bread crumbs in my dress pocket. I had not slept most of the night because of a lusty male customer, a big man who had an appetite for every delicacy I had, even though he had not enough money, so I didn't want to sleep now that it was dawn – slumber only brought nightmares. And while I was up, why not feed the birds?

My body hurt from the rigorous activities I'd been doing, so I sat down very gingerly on a wooden bench in Gramercy Park, careful with my sore rear. Swiping my worn blonde hair up into a ponytail, I got my paper bag and scattered bread for the pigeons that flocked around my feet, ravenous.

"Papa, Papa!" a boy's clear, sweet voice rang through the air like a bell. My eyes caught sight of a young boy, looking to be about thirteen, skipping down the sidewalk. He wore rich warm clothes, and with a stab of fear I recognized him instantly as Gustave, Christine Daae and the Phantom's son. And right behind Gustave, frightening me to the core, walked a tall figure swarthy in long black clothes, a dark top hat, and billowing black cloak. Around his face wound a crimson scarf that covered all of his face but his eyes. It was Mr. Y, the Opera Ghost, Gustave's father and mentor.

Quickly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a set of fake rotted teeth, popping them in my mouth, and, ducking my head, sealing a large fake nose on with spirit gum. Years in Phantasma theatre taught me how to disguise myself in the blink of an eye, and the Ghost would not recognize me with disgusting teeth and a bulbous nose. I let my clothes fall fat around me, disguising my slender dancer figure.

Then the Phantom's voice spoke, and tingles crept up my spine at its rich baritone quality.

"Yes, Gustave – aren't the trees beautiful?" he said, not knowing how much his voice made my heart stir, as he ran a long, gloved finger across an iced branch of a frozen tree. "So pretty, even when dead. Like glass forests."

"Oh, Papa, I love your thoughts!"

I could practically feel the Phantom beam beneath his scarf. "Yes, my son, and I love the way you laugh so." The two of them sat on a park bench, only twenty feet to my left, not one of them casting me a second glance. The man hunkered over next to his son.

"Now, my boy, shall we practice our song?"

"Yes, Papa. You start first."

The Phantom cleared his throat, then let the words flow from his lips, crystal-clear even behind his scarf and full of emotion,

"Soft is the morning, blanketed in grace,

As lovely as her dress, hemmed with white lace.

Only an angel could ever replace

The lady who saw past a beast's hollow face."

Gustave took up the tune in a higher, lighter voice.

"Lady bird, lady bird, won't you come down?

Sweet eyes of a princess, all fit in her gown.

Her gentleness made me forget my frown,

But she's flown from me, far out of town."

Why did my heart wring like a washrag? Mr. Y and Gustave both sang the chorus in perfect harmony.

"Your love, my angel, is Heaven on Earth,

Bringing me joy, kindness and mirth.

God took you away as he gave you birth,

But I still long to tell you your beautiful worth."

When the song was over, I felt myself gasping for breath because of the torture my heart felt at the combination of their voices, of the simple lyrics about Christine. I heard Phantom's voice quavering.

"You need to work on your pitch, Gustave," he commented softly. "It sounded a bit off."

Gustave smiled sadly. "Your voice was breaking at the end, Papa." My soul did not wish to remain silent after this.

A strangled little cry escaped my lips against my will. Suddenly I felt the eyes of Mr. Y and his son upon me, so I bowed my head, letting the cowl fall over my face. The Phantom stood and walked before me.

"Is all well, miss?" he asked me, extending a hand gently. I did not face him, but nodded and stared at the ground.

Gustave got up and wandered over to me too. "What are you doing in Gramercy Park so early, 'mam?" This earned him a little elbow from his father.

Bravely, I slid my voice into a thick Russian accent and chewed on my words like an old woman. "I came to feed the birds," I said convincingly. "I do it every day."

To my surprise, the Phantom took my chin in his leather-gloved hand and turned my head up to look him in the eyes. I felt myself shaking but maintained eye contact, concentrating on his pitch-black pupils rimmed with golden irises.

"You poor woman," he said through his scarf – with his free hand, the Phantom drew a wallet from his back pocket and pulled out money until he had a thick stack of bills. He laid the bills on the ground before me. "Take this – no one deserves to sleep out in this cold. I hope it helps you."

My dry eyes at once felt wet, but I dashed the tears away, feeling myself tremble even more than before. "Many thanks, sir. Many thanks – it will help me greatly."

"I hope it will, miss," he answered, tipping his hat and taking his dark-haired son by the hand. "Say goodbye to the lady, Gustave."

"Goodbye," the boy said softly, the gentle light of the dawn falling across his soft, lightly freckled features – his eyes were big, dark, and moony. God, he looked like his mother.

I watched them walk away until they turned the corner and were out of sight, leaving me all alone; I grabbed the stack of bills and held it, thinking. The Phantom, the man I'd admired all these years, who'd shunned me all the while, now saw the true me – poor, cold, alone – and just gave me money..._power_. He gave me food, shelter, clothes. After counting out the bills, I found I had just enough for a ticket back to Paris, to the old Opera, to my old ballerina friends, to Mother...

To Mother. The very thought seared me inside and out. I clutched the bills in my fist. Recklessly, she'd abandoned me to live my own life, so I would live it, with Mr. Y's generous contribution giving me a head start. I could rise to wealth, become as rich as the Phantom, and all by myself. Who would be laughing then, Mother, when little Meggie becomes the one all bow down to?

We, the Phantom and I, are both ugly in our own ways, but we can hide behind our snow-white masks. I would be two people – a thief with the visage of a lady. A lovely killer.

A newspaper blown by the wind snagged on my foot, giving me enough time to read the headline...the World's Fair would come to town in merely a month, bringing with it more rich men than I could ever imagine. The dark thing that dwelled inside me knew it had sighted its prey and was readying the steel-toothed trap.

Silently I stood, quietly thanking the Opera Ghost and his son as I walked to the Red Lion. I knew I'd see the two again soon.


	4. Four: Soul, Cold as Steel

Hello everyone! If you could review my story and give me feedback as to what you want for the next chapters, it would be much appreciated! Thanks for reading! :) Enjoy!

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"So what exactly are you looking for?" asked Gangle as he sorted through a motley chest of clothes in the Phantasma costume room. I winced as Squelch, the strongman clown, struggled to lace up my leather-and-bone corset.

"Street-smart, but noticeable," I answered, yanking on a purple dress over my head and growling at the result. "I don't want to look like a whore."

Fleck's little head popped from a pile of clothes on the floor. "So...risqué, but not over the top?" She waggled her eyebrows. "Alluring? Classy?"

"Exactly," I replied, undressing again right before the dwarf lady shoved a pile of colorful dresses into my lap.

Fleck gave me a wink. "Try these on, dear."

Hastily, I pulled every one of them on, but sighed in disgust at each result. The dresses were either too modest or too whorish, and it made me frustrated. "None of these work!" I cried, flopping down into a wooden chair. "I'm about ready to give up."

Hesitantly, Squelch stood forward, handing me one last dress in an opaque clothing wrapper. "I was wondering if you would try this on, Meg," he suggested. "I think you'll like it."

Promising to myself that it would be the last dress I'd try on, I shrugged off the clothing wrapper and tugged the thing over my head. Shock filled me – the material was comfortable, smooth and tightening around the waist, cinched in a lovely bow in the back. The dress was dark-blue like deep water, and it matched my di-color blue and grey eyes perfectly, making them look shockingly cold. It showed off my assets, and had a lower-cut neckline that revealed the start of my cleavage. The tightness of the corset and the dress made me feel secure and quick, and I swept my hair up off my slim neck, pinching my cheeks for a little ruddiness.

"Perfect," I smiled, pulling on a pair of black gloves and a black shawl. "Get good travelling clothes on...we are off to find a good cast for my act." Squelch, Fleck, and Gangle squealed excitedly and ran off, leaving me alone. I stared at myself in the mirror before removing my eight-inch knife from its place in my drawer and hiding it inside my dress.

I was dressed to kill.

People milled about us as the three circus performers and I made our way through down the evening street to the slums of New York City. Rain had washed the streets earlier, and the cool in the air, paired with the squish of street slush around my black leather button-up boots invigorated me. Finally we arrived before The Greyhound Saloon, where I would find my destiny, and I took in a deep breath before entering.

The smell of stale beer and human heat hit me like a tidal wave. Making my way to an open table, I observed the place was full of jovial drunkards already liquored up and making grabs at girls who perched around them – their low necklines and painted faces revealed they were prostitutes on the job. I picked a good table facing away from the wall and sat down, Fleck, Gangle, and Squelch surrounding me. A waitress with an ample bosom came over to us and took our order before bustling away, all skirts and hips swaying like a church bell. The light from the gas lamps above our heads made everyone's faces glow with eerie shadows at odd angles.

"Why are we here, Meg?" Squelch asked. "All you'll find here are girls and rowdy men."

"Not true, my friend," I said, eyeing the place as a convict would – spying places to drop in, places to run out; I also amused myself by watching certain men and deducing ways I could take them down with only a few slashes. "The Greyhound is a favorite haunt of one of New York's greatest kingpins, the Italian crime lord, Angelo Damiani." I'd heard this snippet of a secret from one of my talkative clients – being a whore is just as good as being a spy.

The blood seemed to drain from Fleck's squat face. "_Damiani_? Meggie, we need to get out of here fast! We don't need any more trouble than we can afford!"

"But we want an act, don't we?" I retorted. "All acts risk something."

"But risking our lives going to a gangster? Meggie, that's madness," Gangle said, the fine contours of his face puckered with concern. "What do you need to get from Angelo Damiani?"

"Nothing you're concerned with," I hissed, rage lacing my words; I drew back to let the waitress lay down a tray of fresh brown bread and frothy warm beer on the table. "He is part of the act, so just butter your bread and shut your mouths." Without another word, I took a mug of beer and put it to my lips, tipping it back so the alcohol coursed fluidly down my throat, going straight to my stomach to warm it. All the heat in me was concentrated in my stomach, and I could feel more and more cold soaking into my heart.

"Signora," a low voice said behind me, startling me. Turning, I saw a large Italian with cauliflower ears standing there – he had the features of a bulldog, and probably the bloodlust of one too. My mind was in chaos, but my body reacted coolly, for it knew this was one of Damiani's gangsters, a toady. A smile twitched on my thin lips.

"What can I do for you, sir?" I purred, honeying my words.

"Someone at my table wishes to see you," he replied. "An Angelo Damiani?" It was Bulldog's turn to grin. "I'm sure you've heard of him."

"We were just speaking of him...I would be delighted to make his acquaintance," I stood and nodded curtly at my friends, following the today. I kept my eyes cool and my heart cold.

Damiani sat at the head of his table in the dark corner, smoking a large cigar – the blue smoke, misty like a sinister halo around his head made him look like Lucifer himself. His features, fine and Italian, were all strong lines, and his eyes glossy black stones. Damiani's hair was slicked back, dark and greasy, the ends of it curling just above his shoulders. Looking at him, I saw him smile, and that smile was venomous as a serpent.

"We have met before," he beamed, all peppermint-white teeth in his tanned face. "Give me your name again."

"Meg Giry," I replied. "What is your reason for calling me over here, sir? I wanted to ask upon you myself."

"I've heard word on the street you're a whore – strangely dressed as you are, like an upper-class woman," he said nonchalantly, drawing a small but sharp-looking knife from his pocket and cleaning the dirt from underneath his nails. "Is it true you sell yourself, Miss Giry?"

Invisible knives threatened to tear at my heart as he spoke and the men around him smiled in amusement, but I calmly replied, cold as ice, "I did sell myself, sir…once."

"Oh, more than once, I'm sure," he grinned, sparking laughter from his men. "How much will you cost for tonight? Tonio is itching for a bite, and he wanted me to ask." Tonio, the bulldog one, stood next to Angelo, the devil in his black eyes. His countenance was hesitant, but I could tell there was some beast inside of him.

"Sir, I wished to ask a proposal of you instead," I stated, trying to keep myself from flushing furious. "May I speak with you privately?"

Lips twitching as if I had told some joke, he laughed, "No one sees me alone, especially not prostitutes. If you wish to propose something to me, you do it publicly."Damiani leaned back in his chair and kicked his heels up on the table. "Come on then."

Before the courage left my bones, I spat it out. "I wish to join your gang. I can assist you if you assist me."

Roars of chuckles and howls of amusement erupted from the table. The underworld prince's pupils dilated and his eyes glittered with ferocity and surprise. "How could you help me, little whore?" he smiled, shaking his head. "You're worth nothing to me. Just some girl trying to fight her way to the top of the pile on the streets, trying to keep yourself out of the wolf's jaws. Worthless little bit."

"You yourself are no better than a dog," I growled, anger seeping into my throat, coating it like syrup. "Give me a chance, Damiani – unless _you're_ scared of this _whore_!"

Silence muffled the air and Damiani removed his cigar from his thin lips, squashing the lit head on the table with an audible hiss and a short spurt of ash. Everyone in the place had stopped their revelry at my scream at the crime lord, and the only noise was a squeaking inhale from Fleck. Blood pulsed in my ears, hot and invigorating, every vertebrate in my spine snapping to attention. My fingers twitched and itched for my knife.

Damiani did not grow angry, only eyed me. "Tonio, escort Miss Giry out of my presence before she does any further damage to her reputation."

"Give me a chance," I hissed. "You're no crime king, Damiani, just a King Coward, if you ask me!"

The dark prince whipped his knife hilt into a stabbing position, thrusting the blade into the table with practiced speed and stability. Obsidian eyes narrowed on me, predator-like, he lost his smile but not his temper. "Fine. Well, no one will care if a whore dies," he said through twitching lips. "_Kill her_."

Tonio approached me, quick as a wolf about to attack, and I knew he would do more than kill me. Faster than a heartbeat, I rolled under his legs and popped up behind him, drawing my blade fluidly. Before he could turn and retaliate, I stuck the glorious piece of metal into the base of his skull with ferocious accuracy and shoved the stiletto up into his brain – I heard the quick "_schwick_" as it buried itself into the grey matter. Tonio's mouth garbled a few incoherent, pained words, then his body collapsed to the ground, twitching in dying spasms, his black eyes now white and rolled back in his head.

There was a brief moment of quiet, with fear palpable in the air, but then someone screamed, breaking the momentary spell. Any customers at the bar ran out, fearful, tripping over each other to get away from me, the monster, the she-demon, the storm, this Meg Giry. I turned and saw Gangle dashing out too, looking at me fearfully, with whimpering Fleck in his arms. Squelch gave me one long gaze of despair, then took off. My friends were gone, and so were the fearful. All that was left was myself and Lucifer.

Damiani stared at me, a sort of sinister pleasure in his dark eyes; with one flick of his hand, three more of his toadies approached me, cracking their knuckles and growling. The first one swung out before I could react and connected his pair of brass knuckles to my face with a crack. I stumbled back a bit but caught my balance quickly, if still a bit faint from the sudden slash to my cheek; blood trickled down, and I tasted it on my lip.

Taking advantage of my slowness, the brass-knuckled bruiser caught my arms and held them behind me, squeezing my wrists with the strength of an iron vice. His companion, a lithe criminal, drew his knife and chuckled, licking his lips. He eyed my stomach, his target, and brandished his knife, but little did either of them know that holding an opponent's arms behind her back is only a tactic used by playground bullies.

Kicking back and up, hard as a mule, I managed to connect with Brass-Knuckles' manhood and wrench free of his grip, diving to the side as he let me go to nurse his wounded parts. At the same moment, Knife-Boy had lunged forward with his weapon, and instead of connecting with my stomach, his blade sunk to the hilt into Brass Knuckles' stomach. While they were both in shock, I slid my knife between Knife Boy's ribs and drew it out. They both fell to the ground together, and I turned to the last toady.

Surprised, I stared down the third man, who had a peaceful look about him. I approached him slowly, as one approaches a wild animal.

To my surprise, he whipped a gun out of his pocket, a brand-new silver Derringer. Pointing it right at my face, he smiled. He thought he'd won.

Leaning on a table behind me, I laughed, "Reminds me of old days," I sighed, calmly removing my white handkerchief from my bosom and dabbing the sweat off my face with it. The mobster eyed me with impatience and confusion, cocking his gun. But I just laughed sweetly and met his eyes. "_Catch._"

Tossing the handkerchief in the mobster's face, I swept low, dodging the bullet as he shot blindly. In a spilt second I took an upper-cut to his jaw and snatched the gun from his grip, decking him over the head with the weapon. As the criminal fell to my feet and laid there with his other dead cohorts, a stepped over them, heels clicking on the floor, brandishing the Derringer proudly.

Damiani, surrounded by only a handful left of his toadies, clapped slowly, smiling, eyeing me like a cat eyes cream. "Leave us alone," he told his mobsters, never letting his eyes leave me. Reluctantly, the gang members dispersed, and Damiani turned to open a secret door behind him; inside the door was a ladder heading straight up. He turned to me confidently. "Are you sure-footed, Ms. Giry?"

"Do you think after that display I could be anything less than sure-footed, Mr. Damiani?"

Angelo's eyes gleamed with mirth. "I like you." Then he began climbing the rungs of the ladder up to the roof. Quickly, I jumped on the ladder too and began climbing it, thankful for my sturdy black button-up boots.

Peeking my head out of the hole in the top, I saw Damiani extend a hand and he helped me in a most gentlemanly manner onto the roof. Here, on the expanse of rough concrete, he went to the very edge, hands clasped behind his back, observing the city. Putting the Derringer in a leather loop on my hip, I came up to his side and looked over the city with him. He smelled like cologne and basil.

"Look at the life below," he said quietly, in a disembodied way. "All the sway and push of the city. Here is the heart of the world. Here is the concentrated universe. The only way to survive here is to fight. And the only way to thrive here is to become king."

"A criminal kingpin, you mean."

"Yes," Damiani murmured, turning to look at me. "So what do you want in my gang, Ms. Giry? You've proved to me you can fight well enough to survive. Why join a king?"

Looking him challengingly in the eye, I answered, "So I can be a queen."

He chuckled. "Your prerogative, milady?"

"To take out the World Fair crowd at Phantasma. To give all those bastards a taste of their own medicine."

Quick as lightning, Damiani looped a hand around my waist and pulled me close, using his other hand to whip my Derringer out of its loop at my waist; brushing the cold iron barrel of the gun against my temple, he snarled into my face, all mirth gone. "You are weak. A prostitute. Come off your high horse, _troia_. I could kill you right now." His hot breath scudded over my smooth, icy cheek.

All I could do was laugh, hard and throaty, for a good minute. "Ah, that is rich, Damiani! You think I care about my life? Then you're an idiot. Shoot me. Go ahead. You'll just miss out on a wonderful pay-off. Go on, do it."

For a moment that felt like an entire lifetime, Damiani stared into my eyes, but I did not waver for an instant. Then, very slowly, he traced the gun barrel down my slender neck. "I have never had one as brave as you in my gang," he murmured, tucking the gun into the loop at my waist, pulling me against him as he did so; the close proximity to this dangerous, handsome man made my heart thud like a thousand steam hammers in my chest. All between us was friction and heat. "I need someone like you, Ms. Giry." Damiani dipped down and brushed his lips against my throat. "Or should I call you Meg?"

"Any name that suits your fancy, Damiani. Any name you'd like, as long as you held me kill those men."

Raising his head and kissing my lips, slipping our lips together perfectly, making it chaste and quick but full of heat. "Alright, my good girl," he whispered. "Now off you go. We will meet again soon. But now the police have been called. Make it through tonight, and maybe we'll talk tomorrow."

Nodding, I turned my head to the trap door out of where we'd come; a noise came from it, a clattering of policeman boots climbing the rungs. Damiani winked at me and I at him before I jumped off the edge of the roof, flying across the distance between the buildings, dress billowing out behind me. I caught the edge of the other roof with my fingers and pulled my light weight onto the top, turning to watch Damiani cock his own gun and point it at the trapdoor, urging me on silently while he waited for his first policeman target.

I flew, jumping from building to building all across New York, followed by the sound of gunshots and struggle. As the wind hit my face, it seemed new and fresh. This was a new beginning. I remembered Damiani's words. We would be the most dangerous duo the city had ever seen.

Angelo Damiani and Meg Giry would rule New York City.

And we would be unstoppable.


End file.
